


small victories

by butterflyswimmer



Category: Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | Higurashi When They Cry
Genre: Birthday, Dancing, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 16:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyswimmer/pseuds/butterflyswimmer
Summary: Mion's birthday is coming up, the Maebaras and Sonozakis are getting tired of waiting and Mion and Keiichi get the push they need.





	small victories

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commissioned piece.

When Keiichi walks into his father’s studio and begins to mill around aimlessly, he receives a curious glance over the shoulder. “What is it, Keiichi?”

“Oh, you know. Just looking around.” With the exception of a raised eyebrow, this seems enough to placate him. When he’s still there a few minutes later, staring intently at a tube of paint (what _ does _ acrylic mean?), there’s the telltale clatter of paintbrushes being set down. He flinches as his father stands up. He knows he doesn’t like to be disturbed when at work, but Keiichi is running out of time to make his request.

“Can I help you?” His father’s voice is suspicious, and the words stick in his throat. This was a bad idea.

“N-Nothing, I’ll be leaving now. Sorry for disturbing you!” Just as he turns for the door, he hears a cough before the same words are spoken a second time, any prior trace of annoyance now gone.

“What is it, Keiichi?”

When he turns back, all the stress he's used to seeing in his father's face is gone, a tentative smile in its place. It’s in this moment that Keiichi swallows, and finds the courage to blurt it out. “W-Well, Mion’s birthday is coming up, and I don’t have any money…”

After a few moments, he sees his father’s face light up. “Oh! You wanted to give Mion-chan one of my paintings!”

“No! No. I mean, no offense, but…" This was harder than anticipated. “I was thinking… Of painting something for her.” His voice trails off towards the end of the sentence, and he’s not sure if he’s more embarrassed about the idea itself or the sure impossibility of it. It was one he’d arrived at after hours of mulling it over the night before and concluding it was truly the only option left available. “So, um… What I’m saying is… Can you teach me how?”

After a moment spent staring fixedly at the floor, he peers up to gauge his father’s reaction. For a few moments, the lack of a response convinces him he's made a terrible mistake. His next words don’t do much to alleviate this fear—a request for Keiichi to repeat what he’s just said. He’s ready to make a dash for his room any moment, hand already reaching for the door. Even so, visions of his empty wallet dance in front of him—

Within two seconds flat, he’s been rammed into the wall with hands clamped firmly down on either shoulder. His father’s face fills his entire field of vision—how he had moved without Keiichi so much as seeing, he has no clue. “And you wanted your old man to teach you how to paint?” _I_s _he tearing up? _ “Keiichi, do you know how long I’ve waited for this day?” He is blessedly released—skin surely already bruising—as his father swoops backwards and clasps his hands together. “And not only for you to finally express an interest in my craft, but to paint something for your first love! When did you become so grown up, and without me ever noticing?” He ignores Keiichi’s protests of the situation having been completely misunderstood to dramatically wipe a tear from his eye. “Of course I will help you, Keiichi! Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Even if he’d wanted to answer, his father has already sprinted across the room to dive into a cupboard with a loud clatter. Keiichi collapses into a chair with a sigh. Within some minutes, he’s dancing around to a tune of his own concoction, spreading sketchbooks and loose pages across every available surface. Keiichi gets up to peruse the selection—for all the times people would ask after his father’s profession, he didn’t know exactly what is _ was _ he painted.

What he doesn’t expect is the sheer variety of the portfolio now decorating the room—everything from vivid landscapes to still lifes to portraits. More than that, there’s clear talent. Keiichi takes in the tall ceiling of the studio, thinks about the name the villagers have given their home—the ‘Maebara Mansion’. Of course, his father’s income was the primary reason for all of this, and this in itself surely became a demonstration of his relative success. 

He can't help but feel some degree of pride as he looks over his father’s work, all sweeps of colour and dramatic use of lighting and shadow, things he would never know how to even begin to achieve. Even so, he knows his father had to have started somewhere too, and there’s something exciting about the thought of giving something new a go. Ever since coming to Hinamizawa, he’s finally realised the importance of filling your life with things beyond only those you know you’ll succeed at—it was this philosophy that had led him to try, at last, to make friends. And so wasn’t it sort of the natural course of things for said friends to lead him here, ready to potentially fail at something, but more than that—to at least try his very best?

There had been times since arriving in Hinamizawa where he had realised everything his life had lacked up to that point, usually with a sense of melancholy and loss. This is the second instance he can recall the feeling being one of how much he had left to discover, a feeling of hope—the first having been when he’d told Chie-sensei he had wanted to transfer in to the Hinamizawa branch school.

“Found it!” His father’s exclamation snaps him out of his reverie. When Keiichi crosses the room to meet him where he’s just appeared from out of a cupboard, he finds a painting thrust in his face. When he takes it to look properly, he finds it’s of a young woman, bikini-clad and set against the backdrop of a beach, indicated by the gold of the sand and the blue at her back. The scene evidently wasn’t the focus—in comparison to the blocks of indistinct colour, hours of care have gone into crafting this woman’s likeness, from the hairs cascading out of her bun to the faraway look on her face. A book is set down at her side as she hugs her legs and looks out to the sea. Keiichi turns to his father—who, he notices, is now peering rather expectantly over his shoulder.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’re not telling me you don’t recognise your own mother?” Keiichi’s head snaps back to the picture as his father tuts. “Well, it _ was _ some decades ago.” And then, softly, “I was so happy with this piece, though. I really felt it captured what I wanted it to.” And sure enough, he can see it now—in the curve of her lip and even the emotion in her gaze, telltale traits, captured in time and art so that he can understand them even if they had been left in the past, years he’d never know. It stirs something in him, to think you can preserve a moment like this. “It’d be a great idea with Mion-chan, too.”

And he smiles. “It sure would.”

“I mean the bikini.”

It takes him a moment to process the change in atmosphere before he turns sharply to his father’s now leering gaze. He splutters in half-indignation and half-embarrassment. “As if she’d agree— I mean, why would I even—?!” A solid palm clamps down on his shoulder.

“No harm in trying, right?”

“If I had a death wish, maybe,” comes his muttered response. There’s a moment of silence.

“Keiichi… You _ have _ asked her to model for you?”

He blinks. As if anticipating the response, it comes out as more of a question when he states he’d been planning to work from a photograph. And now he really has put his foot in it, he realises, as there begins an impassioned lecture on the gravest faux pas of art, the absolute necessity of live models, the things that could never be captured and replicated by a… a _ photograph _ —he struggles to get the word out. By now, Keiichi has devised an escape route—and yes, true, the skills afforded to him by their club activities did at this particular moment give him a sense that their leader should be on the receiving end of the very greatest of gifts he could muster. He dives for the door.  
  


* * *

  
It does take a good minute more of ranting to the wall about artistic sensibilities before Ichirou realises he is once again alone in his studio. Even so, he has a feeling he’s managed to get his point across one way or another. And besides, he knows the look he’d seen in his son’s eyes—the want to create, the enthusiasm borne only of the prospect of putting paintbrush to paper.

He smiles. He cannot remember a time when he might have been able to conceive of Keiichi showing an interest in his profession—even for his own ends—when they had lived in Tokyo.

Ichirou strides to his window, overlooking the plot of land he had immediately begun the process of purchasing the very day he’d met those two young girls who had somehow already known his name. Regardless of the machinations of fate—he watches the evening breeze dance through the field—this was a place to bring people back to life. His finger absentmindedly traces the strokes of the painting from that day so many hundreds of sunsets ago. It’s the kind of moment where it feels like everything’s come full circle, the ones so rarely afforded, a sign that somehow it all works out in the end.  
  


* * *

  
It’s a few days later, and the prospective subject of Keiichi’s very first genuine artistic endeavour is spread-angled across his futon (he’s been relegated to a modest patch of floor), making her way through his tankobons. Hours have passed and she doesn’t seem ready to leave any time soon, which is just as well considering he feels mildly nauseous every time he tries to gear himself up to propose the idea to her. Even so, for every moment where he seriously considers abandoning the plan entirely, they’ll begin talking again and he’ll find himself engaged in a wrestling match over snacks, or a heated debate over a plot point in the manga they’re reading together and soon enough they’ll both be bent over with laughter. Somehow, he thinks, she always unwinds the coil of nervous energy inside of him. He remembers how they’d told him they’d been a little worried on the very first day he’d transferred in—he’d supposedly had an intimidating sort of scowl on his face that belied an unagreeable nature. It was them, and especially her, that he had to thank for making him smile more than he ever remembered doing so before. And so every time she catches him watching her, trying to work up the nerve to say it, and she asks him what’s wrong, he can only say that it’s nothing and buy himself a little more time. She’ll furrow her brow and return to her book, and he’ll think to himself how lucky he is: that she's cared about him, so incessantly and stubbornly, for all this time. It’s during just one of these moments that he hears his father call up to him about needing help with something. He gets up with a sigh, promising to be back soon.  
  


* * *

  
When a voice that definitely isn’t Keiichi’s calls to be let in, Mion throws the manga aside and scrambles to her feet. Sliding the door open, she instead finds his mother in his place, bearing a tray of tea and yet more snacks—she discreetly kicks aside an empty packet discarded around her feet.

“Ah, Kei-chan just went downstairs, but thank you—!” She goes to accept the tray, only for the other woman to walk right past and sit down at the low table.

“Is it alright if I join you, Mion-chan?”

“No— I mean, of course!” She scrambles over to join her, if unsure as to why. For a moment, she muses on the fact that she doesn't know either of Keiichi's parents that well and wonders if they're unhappy about her having been invited over.

“Sorry to intrude, I promise I won’t bother you for long.” She pours them both tea.

“Thank you very much, um…” She trails off, unsure of how to address her.

“Please, call me Aiko.” There’s a pause during which Mion wonders which polite topic of smalltalk to start on, when she’s beaten to it. “Keiichi talks so much about you all, but as soon as we tell him we’d love to meet you and get to know you better he becomes so stubborn about it. I suppose he’s embarrassed. Nobody wants their parents cramping their style around their friends.” Aiko laughs. “But it does make us so happy to see how well he’s settled in. We were so worried about it.”

At this, Mion relaxes a little, smiling. “Oh, not at all… I’m the class representative, so… I felt like it was kind of my job, with Kei-chan.” And then, realising how this might sound, she appends it with a, “not that I didn’t want to! Help him settle in, that is. Kei-chan’s been such a great addition to our club, he keeps everything lively. All the elders in the village have taken to him too. He’s such a character, after all.” The words rush out in her want to come across as friendly, and she realises after the fact this might also sound rude—at least until Aiko starts to giggle.

“Oh, that he is. I’m so happy to hear that. I do wonder how you all put up with him sometimes!”

“I ask myself the same question. Especially when he goes on his crazy rants. There’s no stopping him. He’s so funny, though.”

She finds herself grinning as they muse over his strange quirks. More than that, she’s almost flattered that Aiko had taken the time to come and speak to her like this. It reminds her of the time Rena had first come to dinner at her home and met her grandmother, and how it had seemed to cast their friendship as something firmer and more personal. Little by little she slips back into her usual way of speaking, enjoying the opportunity to chat with her best friend’s mother. Soon enough she’s catching herself—as she flounders to explain the nature of their club’s punishment games, and the outfits Keiichi often comes home in—careful not to make evident precisely how much of this has to do with her personal enjoyment. It’s while she very awkwardly tries to change the subject that she notices the way Aiko is looking at her. It's as though she’s seen right through everything she’s said—and understood that much more which she hasn’t. She realises how intimate this is, now—looks down, through the steam of her tea to her hands cupping the mug, and takes a slow, steadying breath.

“This might not be my place to say, but Keiichi considers you his best friend. He certainly hasn’t had another like you.”

Her heartbeats scatters like dominos. When she goes to reply that she feels the same, the words catch in her throat. It’s the truth, but not all of it, after all.

“I’m sure he’d get upset if he knew I were to tell you all this.” Mion looks up. “We were worried about Keiichi, before we came here.” She hesitates, pursing her lips, as if deciding how much was too much to say. “Very. A lot has happened.” She chooses her words carefully. “Besides all that, we didn’t know how he’d adjust. We didn’t know if this was the right choice. Was it just going to make everything harder for him, starting from scratch? Were we being bad parents, trying to run away and start all over again? Was that going to fix things for him, and could anything?”

Mion holds her breath, because she can see what Aiko is telling her is important—not just because of its subject, but because it has weight, and she has a feeling these aren’t thoughts she’s ever had the opportunity to share before.

“We were so nervous, when he went off for his first day at school here. Like he was little again. And when he came home, we were both waiting at the kitchen table. And do you know what he said?” Aiko watches her. “He said he thought he’d made a friend. He wasn’t sure, but that a girl had come up to him after he’d introduced himself—maybe older than him, the class representative—and she’d said she’d help him with anything he needed. And he didn’t want to bother her, but at lunch she’d called him over to where she was sitting with some of the other girls, and that they’d gotten talking, and they’d really gotten along. He said the girl was extremely kind. He really liked her. He really hoped they could become friends.”

Mion is drawing slow circles on the mug with her fingertip, focusing hard on the grain of the wooden table, because her gaze has become misted.

“I can’t believe how worried we were. Just because of what this move has done for him, it’s the best decision we’ve ever made. But we’re not the ones who should be taking credit for that. And yes, there’s a lot to be said for fresh country air, and a change of scenery, and all his other lovely friends in your club…” She looks to the window at Mion’s back, warm with late afternoon light. “But really, Mion-chan… Do you know who it is he always, always seems to want to talk about?”

She starts when Aiko’s hand lays itself over hers gently. She feels compelled to meet her gaze, even if she’s sure her emotion is betrayed in her expression.

“Maybe I’m just getting old and sentimental, and maybe I’m being too friendly, but at the end of the day, Keiichi is my child—my only child, at that. I’d do anything to keep him healthy and happy, and I’ve tried. But it’s you I feel I have to thank for bringing him to life again.”

She does her best to blink away the tears, but still doesn’t trust herself to open her mouth. Aiko only smiles an incredibly warm smile—one that somehow already feels familiar—and shakes her head. “You don’t need to say anything. I told myself I wouldn’t do this.” She runs her fingers through her hair with a laugh, and the air seems to relax. “So, when are you going to tell him?”

Mion chokes on a mouthful of tea. She garbles out a, “tell him what?”, tries to laugh and dribbles some on her shirt in the process. Aiko only looks amused.

“Oh, come now… It would be so lovely if you two dated.”

The tea goes down her windpipe. When she’s caught her breath, she does her best to explain that it is _ not _ like that.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry for being presumptuous.” This apology is a lot less sincere, and she feels positively cornered. She considers this, then takes a shaky breath.

“Well, it’s not like that to _ him_.” She looks into her lap, where her fists are now balled and ever so slightly trembling. “So I don’t want to risk saying anything. It could just mess everything up.” She’s aware she’s being uncharacteristically honest right now, but something tells her she can trust Aiko. After all, she owes her at least a little honesty after the conversation they’ve just had. “It’s not like I’m not happy now. I love the relationship we have. It’s selfish, really, to…”

“Mion-chan?” She looks up. Aiko is smiling again, and it’s not mocking. She speaks softly, and with purpose. “Did you listen to what I said? Keiichi thinks the world of you. I know him better than anyone, and I know that while he can be pretty obtuse…” Mion smiles too, now, in spite of herself. “...I really believe he feels just the same as you.”

“R-Really?” The words come out without her permission—she’s getting ahead of herself. Aiko cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. _ Got you. _

“Do you want to tell him how you feel?”

She feels giddy. “I… I don’t know. There’s so much to think about. It would change everything.”

Aiko nods knowingly. “I just want you to know I’m here if you ever need advice, or someone to talk to.” She stands, dusting off her skirt before collecting the tray.

Mion stutters out a thank you that she hopes sounds sincere and Aiko gives her one last smile over her shoulder as she leaves.

It does little to help with her now-erratic heartbeat and sweaty palms when she is replaced, within minutes, by a strangely fidgety Keiichi mumbling something about modelling.  
  


* * *

  
By some miracle or terrible twist of fate—he hasn’t decided which, a week later he finds himself in the yard outside his house, easel and tools to hand, Mion sat a little in front of him, feeling completely and utterly out of his depth. His excuse when he’d brought the endeavour up had been somewhat weak, something along the lines of his father having wanted to see if a talent for art ran in the family, and his thought that it might be nice to try his hand at something new. It wasn’t a _ lie_—more an exercise in omission—and, with a look that had seemed crossed between confused and bashful, she had blessedly agreed with minimal questioning.

As he begins a rough sketch, he mutters to himself in partially-feigned frustration, trying to play the part of the unwilling son. Mion inquires about how it’s going every few minutes or so, which doesn’t help—he only gives her sort-of-smiles and shrugs. He didn’t want to appear as though he wasn’t grateful for her time—and his anxiety was more from a want to make it worth both of their while than any real annoyance at the actual task.

The truth was that he’d spent much of the week prior accosting his father whenever they were both home with questions amassed in the time alone in his room spent practising. Was this the best pencil to be using, and was there a way to make the image appear more three-dimensional? Was there a trick to mixing colours, or to backgrounds? His father had never been so happy to be disturbed, setting aside his work each time to answer with more detail and vigour than was warranted—but Keiichi appreciated it nonetheless. It reminded him of the time when his driving force was to please his parents—though with its undercurrent of bitter spite. There was something much purer in how they could simply share this together, he thought. Soon, dinners around the table together had turned into mini seminars, with his mother only smiling silently as she ate. Apparently she knew of his current undertaking, too.  
  
  
Though some degree of confidence had been gained in the week prior, it wasn’t much in the face of his one chance to use it all to produce something he was proud of. Truthfully, his first few practice runs had gone somewhat disastrously—after which, in the face of his waning will, his father had gently advised him to stop focusing so much on the fine details of the process and the desired end result and to instead simply enjoy himself. What Keiichi suspected he had wanted to remind him of was that not everything in life was to be approached by way of textbooks and perfect, grade A results. He had nodded, thanked him, and only later wondered if he really knew how to do things any other way. What he clung to most of all was the last thing his father had said before leaving him to the newest fresh page of his hand-me-down sketchbook—that he would produce the best art when his heart was in what he was making.

He had been so focused on the dilemma of how to enlist Mion for the task whilst simultaneously hiding its true purpose from her, he hadn’t so much as considered anything else. When he’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs following his mother’s call of “Keiichi, Mion-chan’s here!” that morning, he had frozen, somewhat dumbstruck by the girl in the sundress on his doorstep. Her greeting confirmed it was indeed Mion—no, there hadn’t been some confusion that had left her twin arriving in her place—though her expression had clouded when he’d failed to react. Her voice is soft, shy, when she asks, “um, was I meant to wear something else?”

The fact is that even now, as he paints it—modest, with straps at the shoulders, white and billowing from the waist downwards—he’s still caught on it. It’s simply like nothing he’s ever seen her wear before—like nothing he’d even known was in her wardrobe. Her hair is still up in its signature ponytail, strands teased free by the summer winds to frame her face. Everything else about her is… well, _ her_. The conclusion he arrives at, as he lets the brushstrokes follow the soft curves of her form—she had never looked so beautiful. It’s enough to make him avert his eyes each time she seeks out his gaze, only giving her an awkward smile, refocusing on the task at hand, bizarrely ruffled by her attentions. He becomes all the more absorbed in what he’s doing, lest he think too hard about anything else.

Eventually he realises she’s been calling his name for a while, apologetically asking if they can stop for lunch—he’d been in something of a trance. With a stretch, he agrees, setting his brushes down and letting his eyes re-adjust to the light and scenery. Mion gets up, and for the first time that day his mind is drawn away from her, so much so that it’s only with a second to spare that he leaps forwards and covers the picture before she sees it as she ambles over. What he had realised, in the moments prior—at some point in the last however-many hours, he had not only managed to produce what appeared to be a complete piece, but one that actually captured some fraction of how breathtaking she had looked, sat framed against the summer-sunnied fields, dress pulled this way and that with each gust of wind. It was all he had hoped for and hadn’t been able to picture alone in his room, or in his mind’s eye, only possible thanks to her, model and muse all in one.

After he manages to bat away her many protests of wanting to see it _ now _ and not later, Mion quietens down. It’s while they’re sat inside that she propositions him, once again shy and uncertain: she’d done him a favour, and now he owed her one.  
  


* * *

  
In all the time that Keiichi had spent working up the courage to ask Mion to model for him, it seemed she had been anticipating making a similar request. That was how it had looked from how the words spilled out of her mouth when she’d asked, eyes pressed tightly shut, hands clenched into fists. It had taken another two tries for him to understand what she’s saying.

“You know that it’s, um, my eighteenth birthday soon?” She forces herself to take a deep breath. Her face is tomato red. “My family’s having an event... thing. A formal one, because of my— well, my position. I told them I didn’t want it, but they said I had to do it—appearances, and stuff—and then they kept bugging me about bringing someone.” She looks down, chewing her lip. He blinks.

“It’s just a party, right? Sure, I’ll come.”

Her head snaps back up, mouth hanging open. “Really?” And then, catching herself, “it’s just, it’s not… It’s like…” She trails off again. With considerable effort, she manages to explain that tradition dictated Sonozaki heiresses were found suitors—even her grandmother had had an arranged marriage. Which was not what she wanted, and it would be easier for everyone if she showed up with someone—with a _ boy_—to keep the questions at bay. It kept the pressure off her family, it kept people happy.

Keiichi considers this. “So, like… You’re asking me to be your date?”

“No!” She squeaks. He barely has the presence of mind to be embarrassed, he’s so concerned about her passing out in the middle of his kitchen.

“Look, Mion—it’s no problem, I’ll go with you. We’re friends, right?” He offers a smile, which finally seems to allow the tension to drain from her body.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right."  
  
  
This is how Keiichi finds himself a few weeks later in a considerably grand banquet hall—he hadn’t known such a place even existed in Okinomiya—back in his all-but-new suit from the distant relative’s funeral he’d attended in Tokyo those few months ago. Well, at least he’d found another use for it.

He had made a concentrated effort not to think too much about the day before it actually arrived, as a matter of self-preservation. He wondered, now, if there was something more he could’ve done to prepare his nerves to spend the evening in a room full of everything from high-ranking politicians to polished gangsters. He would throw a sideways glance at Mion every so often as if to ascertain whether she felt a fraction of the nervousness he did, to which she would only flush and start examining the floor. He could feel her grip tighten each time—she had been tentatively holding his arm ever since her mother had implored her to when they’d first arrived.  
  
  
Keiichi hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Earlier that evening, a one Kasai-san he’d met in passing once or twice before had arrived to chauffeur him—he had expected Mion to be with him, only to find she and her family had been at the venue all day, preparing. He felt a little guilty at that and had spent much of the short ride fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, nervousness exacerbated by the silence. By the time he stepped into the hall the apology was already on his lips, but Mion was nowhere to be seen. There were only two women across the room, each wearing a kimono unlike any other he had ever seen—every time one of them moved, some part of the thread work would catch the light, lustrous gold. When he gets closer, he thinks he hears bickering. The older woman addresses him.

“And here he is now, the guest of honour!” She sweeps over to him and bows gracefully. “It’s such a delight to finally meet you. I’m Sonozaki Akane. Feel free to call me mom, at least for tonight!”

He’s only just opened his mouth to respond when he’s cut off by a growl. “_Mom!_” The other woman—she steps into the light, now—moves over to him, grabbing his wrist and shattering any lingering air of mysticism and elegance. “Hi, Kei-chan.” She mumbles. “That’s my mom. Ignore her. I wanna eat before people get here.”

“Mion!” The woman’s voice is only a degree sharper, but betrays an authority that leads Mion to let go of him and turn around with a groan.

“_What?_”

“I won’t embarrass you and I won’t keep you, so won’t you two at least hold arms? You look such a picture, together like that.”

Mion seems to consider arguing this and decides getting him away from the conversation would afford her less discomfort, in the long-run, than anything else. She tentatively feeds her hand around his inner elbow, grip loosening as soon as they’re at a safe distance.

“I’m so sorry about that.” She collapses on some cushions near a table of sake and snacks, eyeing a bottle tentatively. “_t’s going to be a long night_,” he thinks he hears her mumble to herself.

Keiichi sits down wordlessly. Mion looks at him, anxiety clouding her expression. “You’re not annoyed, are you?”

He laughs, abruptly and loudly, shaking his head, as if to wake himself up. “No. No, I’m not annoyed at all.” He looks at her, then. Really looks at her—from the kimono she’s wearing that looks to be worth more than his house, intricately designed, the material a thick silk with a beautiful finish, to her hair, done up in a simple bun and fastened with a flower ornament the same shade of pink as her lips. He hadn’t said anything since he’d stepped into the room because he hadn’t known it was her, and hadn’t believed it when she’d heard her say his name—that this was Mion.

“You look beautiful.” He splutters.

She pauses halfway through shovelling squid into her mouth—a task she had undergone with the nearest set of chopsticks within seconds of sitting down. She freezes up—then, when she tries to say something, she ends up choking instead. In any other situation, he would’ve probably slapped her on the back—instead, he freezes in place, somehow sure if he makes so much as a mark on her attire he’ll be in debt for the rest of his life. By the time he’s envisioned this, she’s settled on the solution of chugging alcohol. Once two small cups have been downed, she actually looks back to him, somehow still reticent. “Um, thank you…”

It takes everything in him not to have a laughing fit. Yeah, it was going to be a long night.  
  


* * *

  
Soon enough, he had found himself standing rigidly at the front of the room behind Mion’s father as he gave a small speech about Mion’s role in the group and how she’d grown into it, followed by a more personal addition about his pride in both of his daughters—the second of which’s appearance he was wearily anticipating. When the speech ends, it’s to a roar calling for a toast the likes of which could only be produced by a room filled with middle-aged men. He looks on as each of these people, surely respectable and accomplished in their own right, clapped for his best friend—her face red from embarrassment as much as the alcohol already consumed. In that moment, his chest feels incredibly warm with pride—for the first time, he’s genuinely grateful she’d asked him here and that he could see this part of her life, even if only for a night. He places his hand on hers, where it rests on his arm.  
  
  
When the toasts are over, they begin to mill around. While formal in name, the atmosphere of the party is markedly more relaxed than he’d expected—aided by the copious sake being brought around on trays by waiting staff. Mion’s rank shows, and it’s endlessly amusing to him to watch the way people more than twice her age speak to her, reserved in their congratulations—though she endeavours to lighten up each conversation in turn with a teasing comment, a joke, a question of how the other has been. Something tells him this isn’t a duty-bound exercise so much as a demonstration of just how she’s gotten so far—by being her true self. He’s more than happy to hang in the background as these conversations play out, only smiling placidly at the occasional glance thrown his way and the questions of their relationship status. Warm laughter would follow as Mion hurriedly excused them at these moments, under the pretense of having spotted someone else she needed to speak to.

Some of these escape plans worked better than others—it took a while to extract themselves from a conversation with Akane about the potential for marriage in the future. Even worse was Shion’s inevitable appearance, accompanied by a loud and detailed explanation of how he might go about taking Mion’s kimono off later. He barely manages to avoid both broken glass and quite probably torn skin by intercepting Mion’s lunge at her sister, hauling her outside through a parting sea of yakuza henchmen looking anything from thoroughly amused to sympathetic.  
  


* * *

  
Her head is throbbing slightly and she welcomes the night air on her skin as they step out to sit in the garden. “Sorry,” she tries. “This is kind of a mess.”

He laughs, the way he had so many times already that night. She wants to pout, to tell him off—but something tells her he isn’t laughing _ at _ her. It’s a soft sort of sound, different when they’re alone together. “I’m having a great time.”

“Is that a joke?” They sit down on a bench sheltered by some foliage. She can hear music drifting from the hall, chatter, the distant clink of glasses. Closer, there’s the sound of a bamboo pole clacking against the surface of a pond.

“No. It’s really not. I’m having fun.” She steals a glance at his face as he looks up into the sky, at the moon and the stars.

“Um, me too, actually.” She swallows. “I’m so grateful for this. Thank you.” It’s hard to get the words out—unlike her, to be so vulnerable. _ You can do this, Mion. _ “I feel really relaxed, when I’m with you. It’s made everything easier.”

He catches her off guard when he meets her gaze head-on—and for once, she holds it. It’s so quiet, out here, but for the gentle symphony of insects, a background score. It feels like the first them they’ve ever been alone together—it doesn’t make sense, because it isn’t, but this time it feels real. She feels ready to be honest. Her heart is pounding.

“It would be nice if we could do this again soon,” she blurts. He cocks his head, bemused.

“Do you have another birthday party to go to?”

“I mean— I mean, like…” Every thought of apprehension comes all at once, a cacophony of alarm bells. She closes her eyes, wills them away. “What I’m saying is…”

She startles when she feels his fingers on her own—they’ve spent so much of the night holding arms, but not skin against skin. She feels her cheeks colour. Her voice barely makes it out. “Kei-chan…?”

“I’d love to.” He refuses to look at her, but his fingers remain, on her lap, on top of hers.

It’s barely a conversation—probably indecipherable to anyone else. But, somehow, she feels he’s understood her. She feels a rush of emotion, more than joy. And for one brilliant moment, all the fear and inhibition is shocked dead, and she harnesses it to lean forward, close the gap, and place her lips just barely to his cheek.

They stay that way for a moment, perfectly still. If he says anything, she doesn’t know it—all she can hear is her blood rushing through her ears, her heart hammering in her chest. She feels a pleasant kind of nausea come over her, one that makes her stagger a little when she gets to her feet, as though she’s forgotten her own body.

“Let’s go back inside, Kei-chan,” he nods mutely, still in shock, taking her outstretched hand. “I can hear my favourite song.”  
  


* * *

  
They begin to mingle again—all sense of ceremony is gone, and the party has become a place for old acquaintances to laugh together, enjoy the food, the drink and the mood. There’s a buzzing warmth to the place that melds with the feeling in her stomach to make her almost giddy. She’s preoccupied with this for a while before she notices how white Keiichi has gone—glaringly so, in the harsh, artificial light. For a moment, she actually worries he’s become suddenly and gravely ill. This is until he catches one of her concerned gazes and makes an almost impressive transition from deathly pale to deep pink. He manages to get out a question about drinks, immediately disappearing off before she’s actually given any response. She allows herself a small smile.  
  
  
Keiichi disappears for a good half hour, during which time she converses contentedly with the remaining guests—time has pressed on, and people are appearing to wish her well one last time before disappearing out into the night. She’s about to find him and give him permission to scurry off home—she’s had her fun, and Kasai has stayed sober just for the task—when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“You know, I love this song.” It’s Keiichi, smiling stupidly, a decidedly different red, now—it doesn’t take her much guesswork to surmise he’d been roped into some kind of drinking game.

“Oh, really?” She feels a smile tug at her lips. If this was his first time getting drunk, she wanted to wring every bit of blackmail material out of it that she could. It was her birthday, after all—she distantly recalls he hasn’t actually given her a present, yet. Keiichi nods sagely as the tinny pop music rings out through the overhead speakers.

“Watch.” He steps back as if preparing for something, before beginning to move his limbs awkwardly. It takes her a good minute to work out he’s trying to dance, at which point she begins laughing loudly enough to attract the attention of roughly half of the remaining partygoers.

“You are one of a kind, Kei-chan.”

“Do I hear our mighty club president admitting that I’m better at something than her?” He drawls in response, to which her eyebrows skyrocket.

“You know what? Yeah. If we’re competing for the title of most horrendous dancer in Japan.”

“I’m wounded.” He responds in a flat tone. “I still win, though.”

She looks around, decides the room is empty enough to throw away her pride, downs the rest of what’s in her cup and kicks off her shoes. “You want embarrassing dancing? You have _ no idea_.”  
  
  
Ten minutes later their very loosely-designed competition has devolved into uproarious laughter. Whether it’s the room or the alcohol, she feels lightheaded with the heat, somehow exhausted, exhilarated and utterly hysterical all at once. He stumbles over to her to rub at her cheeks—presumably black with mascara from her tears of laughter—in a gesture so fumbling it would be a stretch to call it in the same universe as romantic. “You look like a panda.” The way she watches his face break into a smile before he pulls away to wheeze with laughter is better.

Through the haze she hears someone, somewhere call out something about one more song, to which he offers her his hand. “Come on, birthday panda.”

“Always the gentleman.”

At first, they’re messing around, pulling each other this way and that—at one point he nearly trips on the hem of her kimono, which sobers him up considerably. After a minute, they slow down—tired, breathless, cheeks aching from smiling. When she feels the hand at her waist, pulling her closer, she obliges, only letting her head fall onto his shoulder. She’s suddenly exhausted, physically and emotionally, from head to toe, and all she can do is let him hold her—and he really is, one hand keeping her upright, the other guiding her, fingers entwined, as, everything be damned, he actually, actually dances with her. “You win,” she murmurs, quiet enough so that she’s not sure even he’s heard it. That is, until she feels his telltale smirk against her cheek.

And for all the times she’s lost her nerve, she wonders why she’d ever want to rush when the real joy of their relationship is every moment like this, another small victory.  
  


* * *

  
“Can you let go of me now?” Mion grumbles. Akane laughs into her hair, squeezing her one more time.

“I will, I will. I’m just so happy!” She trills, letting Mion slip out of her surprisingly crushing embrace to stand and look at the painting once more. She sighs contentedly. “So romantic! Your dad never did anything like that for me.”

Mion just dips her head, profusely embarrassed at this point, praying to all things holy her mother will just leave. At last, she hears the door slide open.

“Happy birthday, sweetie. I’m so glad you had a good night.” With that, the door is shut, and she’s left alone. She collapses backwards onto her futon, hugging a pillow. She’s so tired she feels ready to fall asleep there and then—nonetheless, she rolls over to look at it one more time. When she’d gotten back earlier—after their dance, Keiichi had simply wished her a happy birthday and bid her goodnight—she had almost missed it, only realising when it was caught in a sliver of moonlight.

Propped against the wall was the portrait he had done that day, every line careful and deliberate, amounting to a work of art that had knocked the breath out of her—hadn’t he said he was an amateur? After some minutes of just looking—then picking it up, tracing the strokes with her finger—she blinks away the telltale prickling of her eyes and goes about getting ready to sleep, smiling all the while.  
  


* * *

  
“The dance lessons helped in the end, huh?”

He pulls his tie loose—the barrage of questions had been immediate the second he’d gotten through the door, his parents having waited up. He winces at the memory. As soon as his mother had heard about his invitation, she had insisted that she teach him how to dance with Mion properly. When he had wondered aloud why she thought he was ever planning to dance with her in the first place, pointing out that it wasn't a ball, she had rolled her eyes dramatically. He was pretty certain he’d heard a “poor Mion-chan,” murmured under her breath. And yes, he had been deeply grateful for the evident surprise in his partner’s expression when he’d finally taken her hand—anything less would have been sorely disappointing after the exercise in humiliation his ‘lessons’ had been. All his mother ordering him to fix his posture, do _ this _ with his feet, do _ that _ with his hands—he shuddered at the thought. The whole thing had nearly been jeopardised when a particularly nasty collision with a tall lamp had him falling on his ankle. With no offence meant to his mother, it had been a welcome relief to hold the waist of someone his own age—and who was more or less satisfied so long as he could stay upright.  
  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He stifles a yawn. “Mom, I’m tired.”

“It sounds like you had such a wonderful night.” She sighs. “So romantic. I wish I could’ve been there. I wonder if we’ll be invited next year? You’d better hurry up and ask her out!”

He makes his way to the kitchen for a drink, pretending not to have heard. Once he’s waited it out a bit, he returns to the sitting room to find his mother and father reminiscing about the early days of their relationship.

“I remember when you gave me that sketchbook full of drawings you’d done of me. And I was asking my friends what they thought, and whether it meant anything.” His mother giggles as she takes a sip of her tea. Keiichi raises an eyebrow.

“Sounds like you were both dense as hell.”

His mother looks ready to reprimand him for his language, but instead settles on standing with a stretch and ruffling his hair. His father laughs quietly, watching them both.

“What? Hey, are you laughing at _ me_?”

His mother places her hands on his shoulders and turns him around to march him out of the room. “It’s your bedtime.”


End file.
